


When You Came In (The Air Went Out)

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Fluff, M/M, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Bull is working in Orlais with the Chargers while he waits for a still-unknown assingment from the Qun, when he meets the most incredible men he's ever laid his eyes on.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	When You Came In (The Air Went Out)

It’s been five long years since The Iron Bull’s last visit to a Qunari land.

Whenever Bull thought of what he’d do once he left Seheron his plans always involved Par Vollen. Maybe he’d retire early, help with farming, enjoy his days sitting on the beach, just resting and feeling proud of all the good he’d done on the island.

Instead he was left for ten too many years in Seheron, had a meltdown, and was sent out to do light spy work in bas lands.

Nothing he can’t handle, of course – but after losing an eye in a bar brawl near the Tevinter border, his superiors suggested that _maybe_ he should stick to places a bit more south, which, well. Sometimes, when he remembers how far he is from his homeland and how long it’s been since he’s seen and spoke with a fellow qunari, it makes his skin itch.

The weather doesn’t help, of course, but the weather is the least of Bull’s worries.

It’s cold, sure, colder than he’d like, especially when it snows and chilly gusts of wind blow on his face and freeze the tips of his ears, and the winters are long and dark, especially when you’re deep in Ferelden’s countryside.

But Orlais has plenty of places where one can warm up in a pinch.

Take Le Chevalier Masqué, for instance. It is one of Orlais’ many venues, but it definitely is the most beautiful, and it is often considered the go-to spot for anybody who’s somebody. That’s something Bull appreciates about Orlais after spending so much time in Ferelden: they’re no prudes. Where in Ferelden the night houses would be hidden almost conspicuously behind plain walls and people would call them clubs even though everyone knew exactly what they actually were, in Orlais no one tries to hide anything; the houses are loud and bright, and people casually walk in like it’s just another Thursday out on the town.

Bull is nibbling on tiny macarons at a café on the opposite side of the road from the club, watching as fairy lights are lit up and the doors are draped with soft, silk curtain. Two half-naked dancers wearing the club’s iconic golden butterfly masks step outside to have a smoke and chat, but it’s obvious it’s just a ruse; they draw people’s eyes by cocking their hip this and that way, tilting their heads up to blow out smoke and show off their necks, laughing loudly with their angelic voices. Whenever either of them lock eyes with civilians passing by it’s just a matter of waving, winking, a flick of the head, and hoping a new patron is lured in. _Clever_ , Bull thinks, eating the last of the macarons and leaving enough money on the table for the bill. He gets up and walks straight towards the dancers, who smile widely, showing off rows of perfectly pearly-white teeth.

“Hi there, handsome,” the one with long, blonde hair purrs, hand resting on Bull’s shoulder, his accent heavy but his common perfect. “I was truly hoping you’d come up to talk to us. I've seen you around town a few times now. New guy for sure, I wouldn’t forget a rack like yours.”

“Enjoying Orlais?” The brunette asks. Bull hums.

“Very much so,” Bull says, allowing his voice to come from deep inside his chest. He can almost feel the chill it sends down both their spines. “It’s a lovely city, but it’s nothing compared to you two _chevaliers_.”

Both men laugh. It’s as beautiful as they are. _They’re good_ , Bull thinks.

“That’s a near perfect Orlais accent if I’ve ever seen one. And from a qunari! Come on in, handsome. First drink is on me.”

“Second one is on me, though, and you’ll have to allow me to give you a complimentary dance. I simply insist.”

And that’s how Bull ends up with a lap full of two gorgeous men and a belly warm with the finest wine Orlais can brew, at only seven p.m. on a weekday.

Not only that, but from the seat he took he can hear the conversation happening on a semiprivate booth a few meters away. His ears are much better than a human’s, so he keeps his eyes on the stage, gives plenty of tips to the boys, and hears all about the latest Skyhold gossip. He reckons none of it is useful to his superiors, but he doesn’t know what his assignment in Orlais is quite yet, so any info is useful info as far as he knows.

Bull takes another sip of his wine, allows his dancer to kiss him on the cheek, and enjoys his evening. He damn well earned it.

\---

When Bull wakes up the next day he goes down the lobby to eat breakfast with his Chargers, and they’re just finishing his food when one of the waiters brings a gilded card in a silver tray to their table. In it Bull sees Madame de Fer’s perfect handwriting, and on the back is the address to her mansion and a formal invitation to enjoy brunch with the grand enchanter.

“Viv again?” Krem asks, raising a brow. Bull nods and slips the invitation in his pocket.

“Yup. She wants me to go see her in an hour.”

“If I didn’t know Vivienne I would say she wants to tap that,” Skinner says, smiling wickedly. The chargers laugh loudly.

“She has _standards_ , though!” Rocky says, punching the table, and Bull laughs along.

“Alright boys, alright, don’t get too rowdy, people are staring. I’ll go upstairs and brush my teeth; we don’t want a repeat of last time, eh?”

The laughter restarts, but Bull is already up and walking towards the hotel elevators. Just as the doors are closing, a busser slips in at the last possible second, standing stiffly next to him. Bull looks down.

“ _Ataas shokra_ , Hissrad. I do not envy the way you must mingle with these _bas_ to execute your role in the Qun.”

Bull grunts. Something about what he says makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t let it show. “It is what it is. Are you here to deliver my next assignment?”

“Yes,” the busser says, removing an envelope from his pocket and passing it over. The elevator pings, stops, and the doors open. “ _Maraas shokra_ , Hissrad. Go in peace.”

Bull nods, walks out, and waits until he’s in his room to open the envelope.

Inside he finds a long text in common, encrypted in three different layers. It takes Bull just ten minutes to decipher it, though, and once he does, he freezes, does it again to make sure he made no mistakes. But he was spot-on, as usual, and yet, it’s like a boulder of ice suddenly dropped to the pit of his stomach.

 _Kill duke Bastien de Ghislain_ , says the message, and nothing more.

It’s simple orders, and duke Bastien is nothing but a bas, just like any other.

And yet.

Bull knows what this is about. Bastien has agreed to a collaboration between Orlais and Tevinter to research the formula for gaatlok a couple of years ago, and according to the Ben Hassrath investigating the situation, they’re _close_. Much closer than the Qun is comfortable with. Qun intelligence believes that if Bastien dies, both Nicoline and Vivienne will shut the project down, since Bull’s preliminary investigation in Orlais has revealed that neither women support the project and have been adamant and vocal about their disapproval from the beginning. They think it’s a mistake to meddle in things the Qun certainly wouldn’t like them to be meddling with.

Bull flicks the note in the room’s fireplace, lights up a match, and sets it over the note, which catches on fire immediately. He then brushes his teeth, shaves, puts on a nice dress shirt and slacks that he knows Vivienne would approve of. He’s fixing the wrinkles in his outfit in front of the mirror while looking at the fireplace, where the fire on the logs is low and all that’s left of the note is ashes.

He sighs.

They’re just bas. It’s nothing personal.

 _And yet_.

\---

“You seem rather stiff today, darling.”

 _Crap_. “Don’t worry, ma’am. Just have a few things on my mind, is all.”

“Hm. Work-related, I’m guessing?”

Bull nods. Vivienne takes a sip of her cup and looks out the balcony, watching people walk down the streets.

“If I may give you a piece of advice, my dear?”

Bull nods again, sets his cup and saucer on the table. “By all means.”

“Don’t let work control your life. When you’re working, occupy your mind with all aspects of it by thinking about how you’ll solve the issues that lie ahead of you. But when you’re not working, you must turn yourself off, separate yourself from it. Otherwise you’ll only fall into a spiral of despair, and suddenly every moment of your days and nights will be filled with nothing but worry and anxiety.”

Bull chuckles. “Is that the same advice you gave to duke Bastien, ma’am?” He asks, and right as the words come out he notices his slip. Bastien isn’t a common subject in their conversations, and this comment could very well be seen as highly out of place for him and raise suspicions. He focuses on not showing any unusual reactions while berating himself for allowing his concerns to make him lose his carefully controlled veneer so easily.

But Vivienne doesn’t seem to find the question odd; instead, she allows herself a rare half-smile, so subtle it’s almost unnoticeable. “As a matter of fact, it is. He was great at it before he was forced to play by the rules of the Game, but when we met he was an anxious mess, thinking about politics almost constantly.” She looks at Bull, tilting her head. “We all suffer from this, at some point in our lives, but we must learn how to relax and balance our personal and professional lives for our own sanity. Don’t you agree, Bull?”

Bull nods, smiles, eats a cookie. The cold lump in the pit of his stomach only grows. He shouldn’t have mentioned Bastien. He takes his time chewing and taking another sip of his tea, focuses on his training. Schools his expression, his body language, forces his muscles to relax.

“Thank you, ma’am. You’re right. I shouldn’t worry so much.”

“Indeed you shouldn’t,” she says. “Whatever it is, you’ll find a way through it. I’m sure of it.”

 _Yeah,_ Bull thinks. _I’ll find a way through it._

Once he leaves Vivienne’s estate, he meets up with Krem, who gives him a status on the Charger’s assignments. A few members of the Chargers Private Investigators are currently trying to catch a group who’s been robbing private estates in Orlais, and the others are trying to locate a young woman who’s vanished a couple of days prior.

“Grim thinks he has a lead on the burglars, they seem to be planning a raid at Duke Prosper’s estate. He figures they’re gonna strike this week, so we’re gonna have him, Stitches and Rocky positioned in a few different hideouts around the estate every night. We’ve already spoken with the Duke and we’re installing security cameras so I can keep an eye on our blind spots.”

Bull hums. “And the girl?”

“Dalish is almost certain she ran with a cook who disappeared without a trace the same day she did, but no one complained about his disappearance because apparently his family knew about their plans to elope. Skinner is tying up some loose ends and trying to figure out where they ran to, but I have my money on Kirkwall.”

Bull makes a face. “ _Eeesh_. Really?”

Krem shrugs. “Seems the boy has family there. I called a few people who work on the docks, just in case; only way to get in the city. If they’re headed to Kirkwall I’ll definitely hear about it in a couple of days, tops.”

“Nice job, Krem,” Bull says, slapping him on the shoulder. “Anything else for me?”

“I do have something, as a matter of fact,” he says, pulling out a brand-new contract sheet from the pile. “Remember Duke Remache de Lydes?”

Bull nods, looking over the contract. “Kinda stern looking guy, no sense of humor, was promised the empress’ hand a few years ago but it fell through pretty badly, didn’t it?”

“The one and only,” Krem says, typing away on his computer. “Apparently, he married after the whole Celene rejection scandal, and his wife was the one who contacted us. She suspects he’s been secretly attending a few night clubs in Orlais and she wants confirmation.”

Bull hums. “These people all wear masks, though. How the shit am I going to find him?”

“Beats me,” Krem says, “which is why the job is yours. Congratulations, boss!”

Bull groans, then folds and pockets the paper. “Thanks _a lot_ , Krem.”

And that is how Bull’s found himself nibbling on macarons yet again, right outside Le Chevalier Masqué. According to his research this is the only club a snobby person like Remache would care to visit – and if his sources are right, women are not the company he usually craves.

The same dancers from the previous day walk out the door and spot Bull right away, but this time they hurry over to Bull before he has a chance to finish his sweets.

“The Iron Bull!” Geràld, the blond one, exclaims, draping himself over Bull’s lap right in the middle of the café garden. The waiter looks positively appalled. “I knew you wouldn’t resist our charm and come back for another night of pure _bliss_.”

“Don’t be so cocky, Gèr,” says Leonard, the brunette, as he sits on the arm rest of the chair. The waiter gasps, indignant. “He’s obviously here for Monsieur Anguis.”

Bull makes an inquisitive noise. “Monsieur Anguis? Who’s that?”

Geràld gasps. “I cannot believe my ears! You haven’t seen Monsieur Anguis perform yet?!”

“It is _marvelous!_ ”

“An _experience!_ ”

“ _Magnificent!_ ”

“ _Otherworldly!_ ”

“Boys, boys, please,” Bull says, laughing. “You’ve convinced me, alright? What do I have to do to see this Anguis guy?”

After a word with the waiter and a fat tip to avoid him from banning Bull from the cafe, Bull enters Le Chevalier Masqué for the second night in a row, drinking fruity drinks and flirting with the dancers, laughing and pretending that the ice rock of worry hasn’t lodged itself in his innards, like a cold kidney stone stabbing him every time he remembers his mission.

But he thinks about the advice Vivienne gave him. He's not working right now, so he shouldn't worry about it. He should relax and enjoy his evening, just like he did the day before. There is no sense to overthinking things he has no control over.

It’s a couple of hours in and Bull is trying to listen to the patrons around the club. He reviewed a few videos in the afternoon so he knows more of less how Remache walks and sounds – two things masks cannot hide. He hasn’t spotted anyone who might be Remache yet, but as the minutes go by, more and more people pour into the club, of all ages and genders. 

Geràld eventually approaches Bull’s table with a refill on his drink, leaning closer. “Monsieur Anguis is about to go on stage,” he says, smiling and winking as he leans back. “Enjoy the show.”

And true to his word, not five minutes later, the lights dim down, the crowd goes quiet, the music stops.

And out the stage comes one of the most beautiful men Bull’s ever laid his eye on.

He’s tall, his skin is golden, his body is lean yet toned, and every inch of him is covered in a shimmery oil that emphasizes every groove in his muscles and every curve in his frame. The mask he wears is the same style as the ones all dancers wear, but the colors on his are gold, brown and black, which compliments his complexion beautifully. His outfit is made with a plethora of meticulously draped silks, and once the music starts, he dances almost as if he’s floating, spinning and removing the silks one by one until all there’s left is a black thong that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Several people offer him money, and he takes it all gracefully, without breaking the flow of his dance for even a second. It’s impressive, and mesmerizing, and absolutely fantastic. It almost reminds Bull of...

 _Ah_. Of course. He knew he’d seen a similar routine before: at the Vivazzi Plaza, in Minrathous. Bull pays closer attention, and even with the mask he sees it: pitch black hair, dark skin tone, sharp jawline and perfectly sculpted body. The man is Tevinter, and to Bull's surprise, judging by the way the other dancers speak of him and the massive crowd he’s gathered, he’s not just well-known but _revered_ by the Orlesians – which is highly unusual, given what Orlais thinks of Tevinter as a whole.

Bull claps along with the other patrons when the show is over. He’s loud, big, and imposing, even in a dimly lit room such as this, so it’s no surprise that Anguis locks eyes with him. Bull smiles, tilts his head. Tries for alluring. Bull would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued.

But Anguis doesn’t react to Bull's subtle suggestion. He simply bows once more and walks off the stage.

\---

Bull settles quite nicely into his routine; wake, have breakfast with the Chargers, the occasional brunch with Vivienne, lunch with Krem as they update each other on their ongoing jobs, researching and gathering info on Duke Remache in the afternoons, then heading out to Le Chevalier Masqué, where he nibbles on perfectly crisp fries, sips on various types of expensive drinks, and watches gorgeous, masked men dance and lavish him with attention for hours on end.

All in all, not a bad way to spend his days.

Every now and then Monsieur Anguis graces the club with his presence, and every time Bull is entranced by him. He has a way of dancing, of putting himself on the stage, that is the complete opposite of how the Orleasians dancers do; Orlesians tend to act coy at first, then dance while being as explicit as possible, driving the crowd insane. Anguis, however, dances with a certain purpose to his every step, either moving like he’s a god descending upon all men, or as if he’s gracefully fighting an invisible force. It’s almost like he doesn’t have to try to be sensual, because he doesn’t have to; he’s sensual enough as is. By Koslun, Bull’s convinced the man is sensuality incarnate; Anguis could _breathe_ a certain way and people everywhere would swoon. Every time Bull expects a show from him, and every time he gets it, without fail. It’s impressive how Anguis changes routines every time and makes it look easy, how every show is as dazzling as the one before it, if not more. Bull of course enjoys the other dancers as well, but it’s Monsieur Anguis that he hopes to see again and again and again.

He also figures it’s the novelty of being snubbed.

Bull knows he’s not everyone’s cup of tea. He’s had people give him a wide berth, or people be perfectly cordial to him and nothing more, but most people have quite the opposite reaction. He’s had more than his fair share of people who couldn’t take their eyes off of him, who seem to daydream of what his arms can do, what his cock looks like. He doesn’t blame them; not only is he a qunari, but he’s bigger than most of his kind, with horns as wide as his shoulders to top it off. He knows people get curious right away, and not only does he not blame them, he encourages it. Geràld and Leonard have both ridden the Bull by now (separately and together) as well as many other dancers from the club. He’s never the one to first suggest it, far from him to even hint at breaking the club’s rules and be kicked out for good, but he won’t say no if they ask. He’s free, they’re willing, everyone has a good time. Win-win.

But not Monsieur Anguis. Anguis is a man Bull freely admits he’s curious about. The fact that he’s Tevinter makes him hesitate a bit, but Anguis might just be the exception to his own personal rule of not getting involved with people who are most likely very powerful mages and thus might end up being trouble. But he’s not giving up. Bull always sits close to stage, and he knows that with his one eye and sheer size he stands out like a neon lamp amidst the other patrons, and he always makes sure to maintain firm eye contact with Anguis when his routine is over and he’s looking around the crowd for tips. He’s tried blinking, grinning, smiling... one time he even stuck his tongue out, hoping for a reaction besides his usual stoicism.

The most he ever gets is a blank stare that’s just two or three seconds longer than usual. Nothing more, nothing less.

He considers those a victory. He takes what he can get.

Tonight, Bull decides to change tactics and be a bit more aggressive in his strategy: when Anguis looks at him after his show he immediately duckfaces and crosses his hands over his chest on a double peace sign, like a young Orlesian girl taking a silly bathroom picture. And, _finally_ , something rather amazing happens.

Anguis presses his lips together and stifles a laugh.

Bull cracks a wide smile, and Anguis gets up and walks off the stage like nothing’s happened, but Bull... Bull knows better.

He decides he’s earned a bowl of fruit topped with chocolate and a glass of something sweet and boozy, so he gets up and makes his way to the bar. Geràld gives him a slap on the shoulder.

“You _dog!_ You finally did it! You cracked his mask!”

Bull chuckles. “I don’t know about cracking anything. That wasn’t much,” he lies. Geràld bristles.

“Don’t be so modest, _mon_ _petit honhon_. I have never seen Monsieur Anguis change his expression for anything at the end of his show. And one time a woman popped her top off by simply jutting her chest out! It was _crazy!_ We were almost convinced he was a statue.”

Bull laughs, turns his attention to his sliced fruit, and he’s just about to feed Geràld a piece of strawberry when he hears a commotion. A voice, loud and commanding, speaks from the other end of the bar, and Bull lifts his brow and turns around to check it out.

And lo and behold, if it isn’t Monsieur Anguis himself, next to a stout man in a full-face mask that Bull immediately suspects to be Duke Remache.

It truly is a good day after all.

“If you touch me _one more time_ ,” Anguis says, voice menacing, lips curled into a snarl, “you will return home tonight with _several_ missing tooth.”

“How _dare_ you threaten me,” the man says, and _yup_ , that is _definitely_ Duke Remache. “I’m a patron! After your little show and all the money I spend on this stupid little club you _still_ refuse to put out? Stop being frigid!”

Duke Remache invades Dorian’s space threateningly, and while Bull knows Anguis can most certainly handle himself, he decides to intervene. He steps forward and puts himself between both men with a speed most people don’t expect from someone as big as him. Remache startles, jumps back. Bull looks down at him like he’s a particularly disgusting bug.

“I believe this _monsieur_ has asked you to step away nicely, _mister_ ,” he says, voice as low as it can go. Bull sees the man’s throat bobbing as he swallows.

“This man! This, this... _bimbo!_ He--”

Bull takes another step forward until his whole body touches Remache’s, who tries to step back and is stopped by two bodyguards behind him.

“That’s not a very nice word. Maybe you should apologize to the gentleman before you leave for the evening.”

Remache stutters, clenches his fist. Bull can’t see his face behind the mask, but he doesn’t need to. He can smell the anger, humiliation, and fear, just pouring out of him.

“Mark my words, this club will not last another week!” He spits, then turns around and marches to the front door, the two bouncers close behind in case he changes his mind.

Bull hears Anguis sighing behind him, and he turns around.

“I had it under control,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, I know you did. And I would’ve absolutely loved to see you wipe the floor with that guy.” Then Bull looks around, makes sure everyone else is minding their own business, and shows Anguis the family crest Bull pickpocketed out of Duke Remade’s vest. Anguis widens his eyes. “But I may or may not have been hired by the gentleman’s lovely wife to find proof that he’s been visiting this venue. She’ll be glad to hear my job here is done.”

Anguis hums, nods at the bartender as he sets a glass of bourbon on the bar, takes a thoughtful sip. Bull takes his bowl of fruit and pops a piece of chocolate-covered pear in his mouth.

"I do appreciate it, however. It's not often people stand up for me."

"Well," Bull says, licking the tip of his finger and waggling his single brow. "I would stand up _and_ bend down for you any time."

Anguis stops, stares. Takes another sip of his bourbon.

"Classy."

"Hey, at least I tried."

He actually chuckles at that, then drinks the rest of bourbon in his glass like it’s water. Bull is surprised but doesn’t let it show.

“Well then. I guess I’ll see you around, mister...?”

“Iron Bull,” he says, taking Anguis’ hand and placing a chaste kiss on his fingers. “ _Enchanté_ , monsieur.”

“Careful. Get too close to a venomous snake and it might bite you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Anguis smiles, pulls his hand back slowly, letting the pad of his fingers caress Bull’s hand, then turns around and walks away.

\---

Bull sends Remade’s family crest to Duchess Esmée de Lydes through a fast courier the very next morning, along with a letter explaining exactly how and where he obtained it and a USB drive with recordings from the block right outside the venue, where Remade can be seen leaving the club and taking a cab to his house. Two hours later Bull receives a very polite letter from Duchess Esmée, thanking him for his service and the speedy resolution of an issue that’s been plaguing her for months, along with a check for almost double the amount the Chargers were hired for.

The Chargers cheer when Bull tells them the good news, and during their celebration dinner they share the in-depth tale of their own recent success stories; the burglars that were pilfering estates around Orlais were successfully caught on the act, and not only that, Grim found the warehouse where the stolen goods were being stored the day before they were supposed to be sold in the black market. The missing girl was found trying to enter Kirkwall exactly when Krem figured she would, and her family has managed to contact her and speak to her, but since she’s of legal age they couldn’t force her to return, and so there she remained with her beloved. With all three of their jobs done, Bull orders the Chargers to take the next whole week off, which everyone agrees to.

It’s two days later and Bull is walking aimlessly throughout the streets of Val Royeaux, enjoying his free time. He’s made progress with his assignment for the Ben Hassrath; he recently discovered that Vivienne is responsible for giving Bastien his morning medicine, a small capsule with vitamins that he needs to keep his strength. Now it’s just a matter of sending the information to an agent so they can infiltrate the estate and switch the contents of one of the pills, and after that it’s just a matter of time before Bastien takes the one that contains cyanide.

It’s not that simple, of course. Vivienne is a world-renowned mage, and Bastien is one of the most important political figures in Orlais; their mansion is filled with security measures that go beyond cameras, like magical wards, glyphs, and protective spells. Underestimating Vivienne is the worst thing one can do, and Bull is better than that. He’s already requested a detailed map of the security system in Vivienne’s house, in and out, and he’s sure he’ll get a reply in a couple of days time.

He knows the Qun will make it work, though. They’ve completed trickier and more complicated missions in the past, with less resources than they have now. When Bastien dies Vivienne will surely be blamed for his death, and Nicoline will shut down the Gaatlok recreation program, not just because she never approved of it in the first place, but because she and Vivienne will know right away that the Qun is responsible for their husband’s death. They’ll also know that Bull was somehow involved in his death, of course, although they’ll have no way of proving, but Bull knows that, because of this, he will never see them both again. Probably won’t be able to set foot in Orlais for at least a couple of decades either, if not more. If not ever.

His stomach churns all of the sudden, and it’s not from hunger.

A blinking light on his peripheral vision makes him look up, and at the end of the block he sees Le Chevalier Masqué, at full swing this time of the evening, the neon signs and fairy light outside dazzling and the music pounding behind the doors. Bull stops, stares for a few seconds, then decides it wouldn’t hurt to go in for a bit since he’s got nothing else to do and a distraction is more than welcome. He says hello to the bouncer at the door, hands his coat to the lady up front, and _ah_. Of _course_.

Monsieur Anguis is on the stage this evening, his back to the pole and his eyes shut in pure bliss. He is a sight for sore eyes; his hips move to the rhythm of the song, and he’s highly aware of every limb and muscle in his body, all of its angles and how they move, just as he always is. Bull takes a table close to the stage and sits back, fully intent on just enjoying the show.

But a couple of minutes in, Anguis opens his eyes, immediately spots Bull in the crowd, and to Bull’s utter and complete shock Anguis smiles, winks, and then climbs up the pole before gracefully twirling all the way back down.

Bull feels winded, like someone’s slapped him in the face and punched him in the guts. He can sense the patrons sitting nearby staring, probably wondering _what just happened_. Anguis never gives anyone the time of day. _Ever._

And yet.

The music ends, but Bull barely registers it; he feels like the last few minutes passed by in a blur. He was barely able to process the end of the performance. Monsieur Anguis bows to the cheering crowd, and _again_ looks in Bull’s direction.

He flicks his head back, just a tad, something almost impossible to see if you’re not paying very close attention, and exits the stage.

Bull takes the hint. He gets up and goes straight to the backstage door. A security guard clears his passage without even blinking.

And there, waiting for him in a silk black robe, is Anguis.

“Good evening, my dear,” he says, and Bull remembers that voice. Smooth as silk, deep like the ocean. He’s never thought of himself as a poet, but _damn_ , this man could make mountains _sing._

“Hey,” Bull says, feeling precisely none of the poise he usually has. He’s tired and confused and feeling overwhelmed. Anguis seems to notice; he tilts his head, like a curious cat, and beckons Bull closer.

Bull goes, against all his Ben Hassrath training. Anguis touches his cheek, gentle, _oh so gentle_ , and Bull feels lost in his grey-blue eyes.

A full minute passes with them standing like that. Bull feels people staring at them. He doesn’t give a shit. It’s like the two of them are the only ones in the world just then, time standing still where their skins make contact, Anguis’ palm searing hot like coal.

 _Who hurt you_ , a voice echoes in Bull’s head. He doesn’t know if that’s his own self-consciousness translating the look in Anguis’ eyes, or if that’s Anguis communicating with him using magic. It should freak him out, but he feels oddly disconnected from reality. Instead of answering, he lifts a hand up and cradles Anguis’ hand against his cheek, closing his eye. Making himself vulnerable to a stranger in a way he’s never _ever_ done before.

This whole interaction would normally send alarm bells ringing through Bull’s mind, but instead, he feels at peace.

“Come to dinner tomorrow. My house. Bring wine.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bull says, finally opening his eye. Anguis smiles softly. He breaks contact for a second, just long enough for him to scribble his address in a piece of paper and shove it inside Bull's breast pocket.

“Thank you,” Anguis says, and Bull thinks he’s the one who should be thanking _him_ , even though he doesn’t know what for.

He leaves the club in a daze, and he falls asleep as soon as his head hits his pillow.

That night he dreams of a man dancing with snakes coiled around his arms and legs, storm-like eyes in slits, but an incredibly kind look on his face.

And the next morning, against his better judgement, he leaves the whole encounter off his daily report to the Qun.

\---

“Ma’am, this may sound odd, but... do you know of any Tevinters living here in Orlais?”

Vivienne looks at Bull, picking up her cup and sipping before answering.

“There’s a few, but one or two jump to mind, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

Bull shrugs. He’s been faking nonchalance a lot, and Vivienne sees right through it, lifts a brow in question. He sighs.

“I’m meeting someone tonight. I’m having dinner at his place. You know tons of notable people in Orlais, felt like you might’ve heard of him at least.”

“My, my. You’ve accepted to dine with a man you know little to nothing about? And now you’re asking _me_ about him?”

Bull rubs his neck. “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

Vivienne chuckles and sets her cup down, crossing her leg in one fluid motion. “It is. But I’m intrigued. Tell me more about him.”

“Well, he has this mustache--” Bull begins, and Vivienne laughs, making him stop.

“Ah, yes. I know who _that_ is.”

Bull widens his eye.

“You know him?”

“ _Know_ him? Darling, I see him for dinner once a week. I helped him settle in Orlais. His best friend and stepbrother is one of the finest lecturers the University of Val Royeaux has ever had. Saying I know him would be an understatement.”

 _Well_. That can be a conversation starter for the evening.

"Can you tell me more about him?"

Vivienne pauses, the mirth falling off her lips. She sets her cup back onto her saucer and sighs.

"These are not my stories to tell. He came from Tevinter by his own volition, but at the same time, not precisely because he had many other options, and that is all I will say. If you need anything more I am sure you can hear the tales directly from him."

"If he's inclined to tell them, of course," Bull says, and Vivienne smiles.

"Naturally. You couldn't get Dorian to do anything he doesn't want to do, my dearest. But I imagine you must've figured that out yourself at this point."

Dorian.

 _Dorian_.

Bull nods, makes a mental note of the name but doesn't say anything. _Dorian_. It fits him, somehow.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says, and quickly changes the subject.

\---

Bull unfolds the paper one last time, looking up at the house in front of him.

It's small, with a garden up front, a few flowerpots arranged under the window with orchids inside. There is warm light coming from the living room, and smoke billows up from the chimney.

It's so homey Bull almost doesn't believe he has the right place.

He walks up and rings the doorbell anyway, and a voice on the other side screams _just a minute_ as footsteps echo in the carpeted floor.

And when Anguis - no, _Dorian_ \- opens the door, Bull widens his eye.

It's the first time he's seen the man without his mask, and he is even more _stunning like this_ , which should’ve been impossible, and yet, there he is.

"You came," Dorian says, smiling, and Bull wonders why he wouldn't have. "Come on in, dinner will be ready in a bit."

Bull walks in, shuts the door behind him as Dorian rushes back into the kitchen. The house smells amazing, and Bull picks up the scent of a well-seasoned roast, sweet and rich and mouth-watering. Dorian quickly pours two glasses of wine before turning back to the stove to tend to the food. "This isn't a Tevinter vintage, but it'll do for now. Maybe next time I'll manage to get you something a bit more worthy."

_Next time._

"I don't think I got your name," Bull says, sitting on a kitchen stool. Dorian stops stirring long enough to look back at Bull, pausing dramatically.

"Well, I think you know it already," Dorian says, and Bull makes a face. "You and Madame de Fer talked, didn't you? About me."

 _Ah._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Bull explains, but Dorian waves a hand and sips his wine.

"It's fine. I don't fault you for doing it. I admit my invitation must've come out of left field for you, and I don't blame you for using your contacts to try and assess what it is that you're getting yourself into."

Bull looks down at the wine in his hands, swirls the crimson liquid slowly. Despite Dorian's snubbing, it's a very nice Orleasian red; probably at least twenty years old, judging by the label and the taste. It's very fine wine, which will certainly pair beautifully well with the roast in the oven. He takes another sip and watches Dorian's back as he stirs the pot in the stove, the silence over them both so heavy and overpowering he can barely stand it.

"If you know Viv and I talked it means she told you about me, too," Bull says, sipping his wine again. Dorian turns around and smirks.

"Touché. In that case, I guess we're even."

Bull hums. "Why did you invite me, anyway?"

Dorian takes the pot off the stove, turns the contents onto a serving platter, seemingly lost in thought. "Honestly? It was a bit of an impulse, really. I heard so much about you from my coworkers, and I always saw you in the audience, and you were always so... I don't know. There was always something about you." He looks at Bull and smiles. "And it wasn't just the horns, as impressive as they certainly are."

Bull chuckles. "Of course not. It was the muscles," he says, flexing to show off his arms, and Dorian laughs.

"See, that's what I mean! Any other man would probably have assumed I'd invited them for nothing but sex and tackled me as soon as I opened the door. But not you, though."

Bull stops at that. He looks at Dorian, scraping the bottom of the pan with a spatula, a soft smile on his face. Thinks about how people approach him just for the sex most of the time – which he doesn't really mind – and rarely for anything else, and how Dorian must see himself in that same situation, maybe for the first time in his life, if Bull's assumptions about his past life in Tevinter are true.

"Not me," Bull agrees, raising his wine glass. "To not rushing into sex with incredibly hot people," he offers as a toast, and Dorian laughs again, fetches his own glass, and tinkles them together.

"To good conversations with insanely beautiful people," Dorian finishes, and they both drink.

Dinner goes by, weirdly, as if Bull and Dorian have known each other all their lives. They open a second bottle of wine – a Tevinter vintage, Bull notes, but doesn't say anything besides complementing the quality of the drink – and talk about anything and everything. The dinner is exquisite, Dorian's house is warm and cozy, and Bull notes, for the first time, how behind the butterfly mask there is a man who seems to crave human connection, but hides it under a second mask, this one invisible to the naked eye, unless you're paying very close attention.

And Bull always pays very close attention to these ones.

When the second wine bottle is also gone and Dorian is laughing as he licks his dessert spoon clean, Bull feels like he could run around the world just to protect Dorian. Beautiful, raw, amazing Dorian, with his curly moustache, his savvy personality, his radiant smile. Bull wants to pick him up and hold him in his arms and never let go.

It's a dangerous thought to have, and yet, at that very moment, he welcomes it wholly and doesn't question it in the slightest.

Dorian stops laughing when he sees Bull staring, and for one moment, everything stands still. Dorian with his storm grey eyes, pupils slowly expanding, like a cat focused on his prey; Bull with his slumped shoulders, counting his breaths to maintain his heart rate as is, feeling more at ease than he probably should be.

And together they collide like a magnet, lips touching, hands roaming, until their clothes are coming off and the dinner table is doomed to be debauched beyond salvation.

It's unlike any other first hookup Bull's ever had, including the dinner and the wine and the _very_ good company. Once they're in a state of enough undress, Dorian straddles Bull and grinds on his lap almost the same way he dances on stage. Every movement is deliberate, accounted for, calculated and executed perfectly. He knows the effect he has on people and he knows how good he is, and that much is also true in this context, which doesn't surprise Bull in the slightest. Dorian controls the whole experience, guiding Bull back and forth with a hand on his arm, the other on his shoulder, bowing his torso back and over the table until his skin is stretched taut over his ribs and stomach. Bull dives in, laps at Dorian's navel like a man thirsty for water, and Dorian moans and cradles his nape, gently guiding him, saying things like _yes_ and _please_ like it's a prayer and Bull is his one and only God.

Bull lays Dorian over the table, admires him for a good while, then fucks his thighs, holding Dorian's calves over his shoulder and ramming him until the chair on the other side topples over. Afterwards he licks the come off his chest, and Dorian moans and stretches himself out, displays himself to Bull for him to do as he pleases, content as one can be. It's a lovely sight, and Bull wishes he could take a picture of Dorian like that, place the photo on a solid gold frame, tack it on his fridge, keep it inside his wallet.

Bull rarely describes any sort of sex he has as perfect, but he decides this time he'll make an exception. Just this one time.

\---

The days after his first date with Dorian go by almost too fast as far as Bull is concerned. The Chargers get back to work with a dozen new contracts on their laps after how successful their last few jobs ended up being, Bull keeps up with his routine to visit Vivienne every other day, and him and Dorian... _well_. Even Krem's noticed how starstruck Bull's been acting, and that's truly saying something. They meet up backstage when Dorian's working, at Dorian's house or Bull's hotel room when he's not, and together they talk, laugh, and make sweet music together. And interesting enough, everything comes almost naturally to them, and Bull feels... _happy_. In a way he's never felt before.

And it scares the crap outta him.

He's writing a new report to the Qun on his desk and it hits him that it's been weeks since he's had any progress with the Bastien assignment, which is the whole reason why he's in Orlais in the first place. He taps his pen on the desk and looks at his halfway finished encrypted message that contains absolutely nothing of interest to the Ben Hassrath.

He hasn't told them about his relationship with Dorian either, which he knows he should've at some point. At first he didn't feel it was needed – his excuse was that Dorian was just a one-night stand amongst many that he's had, and the Qun isn't interested in the nitty gritty details of the bas lifestyle he maintains to infiltrate bas lands – but when they continued seeing each other, well... it's not pertinent to his end goal in Orlais, right? So why would he need to report it for?

 _Shit_ , that sounds like a lame-ass excuse, and Bull hates it. He curses out loud and folds his report up, maybe a bit less neatly than usual, deciding he'll finish it tomorrow after he's had a chance to meditate and clear his mind. He puts away his things and climbs into bed, sighing tiredly.

An arm snakes over his chest, and Bull smiles.

"Took you long enough," Dorian whines, snuggling closer. "Promise you won't get up before me tomorrow morning?"

"Promise," Bull says, taking one of Dorian's hands and kissing the back of it, before pressing it firmly to his collarbone. "Pinky promise, even."

"Good," Dorian mumbles, already drifting off to sleep. Bull sighs, feeling worried, but also not knowing exactly _why_.

It's a full moon night. Bull doesn't close the blinds because he likes waking up early to eat breakfast with his boys, so he looks at the moonglow on the bedroom floor, hears the wind blowing outside, the owls hooting in the tree branches. Dorian is a comforting weight by his side, and it's nice to feel him there, feel his warmth, his heartbeat. He stops to think about it and realizes it's been a couple of months since their first time together, and now it almost feels like Dorian's always been there. Always been a constant in his life.

He thinks of how it's going to be when he leaves, after his assignment is done. After Vivienne's life is well and truly ruined.

After he's killed yet another innocent man in the name of the Qun.

"You're thinking too loud," Dorian suddenly says, and Bull _jumps_ , startled. He squeezes Bull hand. " _Kaffas_ , I can never startle you like that, Bull. What's wrong?"

He could lie. Say it's nothing. He could come up with a million excuses on the fly, make them sound genuine. He's done so several times before, with hundreds of people. He's one of the best agents the Qun's ever had. He can do it.

But, at the same time, he can't bring himself to do it. Not now. Not again.

"What if your job said you had to do something... and after a while you realized you don't actually want to do it?"

Dorian is quiet. Bull holds his breath, closes his eye. It's more of a rhetorical question than anything, but saying it out loud... it weighs on him, but at the same time, it takes a huge weight off his chest. He knows the answer to his question but he doesn't like it. He knows he has to do it. He has no choice. _Asit tal-eb._ It is to--

"You don't do it."

Bull opens his eye.

"I... what?"

"You..." Dorian says again, shifting in bed so he's looming over Bull. "Don't do it. Simple as that."

"I... _can't_. I can't _not_ do it. They're gonna--" _Kill me. Banish me. Disown me. They're everything I know. Everything I... have?_

Dorian stares down at Bull, a serious look on his face. It's almost like he wasn't sleeping just minutes before, and instead has been wide awake for hours and hours. Bull thinks about how Dorian keeps on surprising him every single day and feels a pang in his chest.

[Bull doesn't quite know it yet, but months from now, he'll remember this as the exact moment he falls in love with Dorian.]

"You're with the Ben Hassrath, aren't you."

Bull almost gasps. He inhales sharply for a fraction of a second, then schools his expression into something else. He's about to say something to defuse the situation, but Dorian jabs a finger at the tip of his nose.

" _There_. Right _there_. That's _exactly_ what I mean. I'm a Quarinus boy, Bull, born and fucking raised. You might think all Alti are all just pampered idiots who can't tell the real world from the pretend bullshit they came up with themselves, but I sure as fuck didn't survive in Quarinus not knowing how to spot a threat straight from Seheron when they could be lurking anywhere. I've encountered my fair share of Ben Hassrath, and I was trained extensively on how to spot one, since they aren't always qunari."

 _Shit_. Of _course_. Bull almost wants to slap himself. An awkward silence falls over them, and Bull just stares at Dorian intently, and Dorian meets that stare eye to eye, not flinching. Bull imagines a snake facing an ox ten times its size head on, unafraid and unrelentless.

"Why are you doing this?" Bull asks. Dorian's expression softens, and he rests his open palm over Bull's chest.

"I know you think I don't know anything about real life because I'm most likely a spoiled brat who fled from home to become and exotic dancer in an exotic land, undoubtedly to spite my parents. But you'd be wrong. I did flee from Tevinter, yes, but I did it to escape several responsibilities that I involuntarily inherited, things that were unwanted and unrealistic for me. I, too, was asked to give too much of myself, to go against everything that I am in order to do something I didn't want to because it was my _duty_ to do so. Even if it went against what I knew was right. Even if it _broke_ me. It was my obligation as a Tevinter national to sacrifice my whole being to maintain an ideal, an image. So I said no, and I left."

Bull gulps. His eye burns. He tries to will his heartbeat to slow down, to no avail.

Dorian sinks his black nails onto Bull's chest, comes closer to him, allows them to share the same breath, the same air.

"Listen to your heart, Bull. You're a good man, I know you are. Don't do anything that would break you. _Don't you dare let them break you_."

Bull takes another deep breath and finds his sinuses stuffy.

" _Shit_ ," he says, bringing a hand to hide his face, and Dorian, sweet, loving Dorian, kisses his jaw.

"I'm here, Bull," he whispers, draping his body over Bull's, holding him close and soothing him. "I got you, _Amatus_."

\---

Bull doesn't finish his report the next day. He burns it on the fireplace, Dorian draped over his back as a much needed comfort and reassurance that he’s doing the right thing.

He checks out of the hotel and rents a few properties for him and the Chargers to stay while they finish with the jobs they have so far in Orlais. He also ignores the regular drop off points, even when he sees from afar that there is correspondence waiting for him. After two weeks of that, when he's beginning to think the Qun might've left him alone without a fuss after all, he gets a knock on his door.

It's Gatt. Of fucking course they'd send _Gatt_ for him.

"What the fuck, Hissrad?! I haven't heard of you in too long, I was starting to get worried! Do you need help to finish the job? I can get more people here if you want, just say the word."

"I'm not doing it, Gatt."

Gatt stops. Freezes.

"No. What? _No!_ You don't mean that."

Bull sighs, opens his fridge to get some cold water. Gatt huffs.

"No, I _told_ them you wouldn't betray us like that. I _trusted_ you! What _happened ?!_ "

 _Seheron happened_ , Bull thinks, _for ten years_. 

"Vivienne is my friend," he says instead, which is also the truth. "I can't do that to her."

Gatt bares his teeth like an animal. Disgusted, feral. He spits on Bull's feet. Bull doesn't react.

"Filthy _tal-vashoth_ ," he says, words dripping with venom. Bull feels like he's been slapped, the word paining him deep. "I curse the day I put my faith in you."

"I'm sorry, Gatt," Bull says, honest. Because he is. He's sorry for everything. How the world treated him. How he disappointed him. How they'll never see each other again.

Gatt bristles, then turns around and bangs the door behind him on his way out.

Dorian leaves from the bedroom and presses a kiss over Bull's shoulder, atop a deep scar he has on that spot. He's shaking, but he's also relieved. They might send assassins for him soon, but he’ll be ready for them when they come.

Tal-vashoth. He repeats the word in his head. Wonders about madness.

"I'm proud of you," he hears Dorian say, and that alone soothes him, makes the shaking subside. He's still him. Dorian and his boys are still there. Not all hope is lost.

Bull visits Vivienne that same day. He hints at her that she should switch Bastien's morning medication, and that she should insist with him that he drops the Gaatlok research project. He doesn't explain why, but she nods, solemn. Madame de Fer is a powerful woman that needs very few words to understand their true meaning. Bastien fights about it at first, but in the end he trusts Vivienne with his life, and decides to follow her suggestion. The announcement goes public the very next day, and while Bastien and Nicoline attempt to quell the worse of the reactions that comes along with such a big decision, especially the ones from fellow politicians, a quarter of staff in their estate vanishes over the course of a week, almost like they never existed in the first place.

The assassins come, eventually. Bull is prepared for them, although Dorian is not; he finds himself being pampered and cared for the next three days straight by Dorian and all his coworkers at Le Chevalier Masqué, being offered fine spirits and fresh fruit and the best seats in the house.

And Dorian still dances, of course; he's as mesmerizing as ever, as beautiful and enchanting and alluring as the first day Bull's seen him. He's both the snake and the charmer, the knife and the cake.

But now, Dorian keeps his eyes on Bull for the entire routine. It's like it's just the two of them at the club in a private viewing and everything else is just white noise, unimportant and nonexistent around them. It's just Bull and Dorian in the room, and nothing else.

It's now been almost six years since Bull's last visit to a Qun land, but for the first time in his life, he's made peace with it. Sure, the cold weather in Orlais has nothing on Par Vollen's warm summers, but it also has other things his homeland could never _ever_ offer him, not in a million years.

Dorian steps off the stage, naked but for a silk scarf wrapped loosely around his hip. He extends his arm out, and Bull smiles and takes his hand.


End file.
